MigrationAnonymous

10 Sept 3 min read

The Year Everyone Started Saying Goodbye

It started small. First it was a colleague from Compliance — one Friday she was sharing jollof at the office potluck, the next Monday there was a farewell card going round for her "Canada journey." Then a colleague from IT. Then two people from Finance in the same quarter. By the time our HR lady joked that she should just keep a permanent "Bon Voyage" cake order with the bakery, nobody laughed too hard, because everyone was quietly doing their own IELTS prep in their spare time. I was the one who swore I would never japa. I used to argue with my friends in our WhatsApp group — "This is my country, who will build it if we all leave?" I said it with my full chest, several times, usually after a good day at work when the naira in my account still meant something. Then came the month fuel doubled again. Then the month my landlord increased rent by 40% "because of the economy" and said it like it was a weather report, nothing personal. Then the month I did the maths — my salary in dollars, converted, was less than what my former course mate in Lagos-then-London earns in two weeks doing customer support, not even her main profession. I did that calculation on a Tuesday night and didn't sleep well. I still love this country. I want to be clear about that, because people who leave get accused of not loving home enough, as if love pays school fees. But I also love my future children having stable electricity to do their homework under. I love the idea of not calculating "will an ordinary flu bill wipe out my savings" every time I feel a headache coming. So I started my own process quietly. I didn't post it on LinkedIn with a countdown. I didn't want the mixed comments — half "congrats o, remember us" and half "another one has abandoned the country." I just did my documents, saved in dollars where I could, and kept showing up to work like a normal person, because in this economy you don't announce your exit plan to anybody, not even close colleagues, until the visa is in hand. Loose talk has cost people their notice period peace before. The week my visa got approved, I sat on my bed and felt two things at once, which I think is the most Nigerian feeling there is: real joy, and something close to guilt. Guilt for the team I'm leaving mid-project. Guilt for my mother, who will now tell her friends "my daughter don travel" with pride, while quietly missing Sunday rice at her table every week. Joy because for the first time in years, I feel like I am choosing my life instead of just surviving inside it. I don't know what the abroad life will actually be like once the excitement wears off — the loneliness people warn you about, the "japa depression" nobody prepares you for, the jobs that don't recognize your years of experience back home. I know it's not automatically better, just different, and that some who left are quietly regretting it in group chats nobody else sees. But I also know I was tired of watching my career, my plans, my whole timeline for life, be decided by an exchange rate and a government I didn't choose. So this time, I'm choosing something. Even if it's not perfect. Even if I cry at the airport, which I already know I will. If you're still on the fence: there is no shame in staying, and there is no shame in going. Just don't let anybody — group chat or LinkedIn — make you feel like your decision about your own one life is a referendum on your patriotism.